Take Flight
by onbrokenfeet
Summary: She's waiting. You're late, in trouble, and barefoot. Good luck. [One Shot. Rated T for language?]


(I'm back, enjoy, loves.)

You're already late far before you even decide which hoodie to wear.

You've at least accomplished the horrid task of rolling away from your position above your bed. You've very calmly made it to the bathroom and you're yawning into a blank mirror. Your hair is a whole flock of black sheep gaining mass with every movement. You chuckle at the three foot wide monster before wondering if you have time for a bath.

No, no you don't. You don't even have time to get dressed but the last time you showed up naked she locked her windows for weeks. Then again, she also hates when you smell.

"If you're late again Marceline, you won't find me waiting."

The reminder drifts through your brain like a whisper easing through the cracks in the windows. Right. You sigh hard through your bat-like nostrils. She hates when you keep her waiting.

"So demanding," you grumble. You push your brush hard and shear your flock in only seconds. A quick turn into your room, you plummet into your closet. Okay. Socks that sort of match, jeans with only slight holes in the knees. You pull a dark gray hoodie over your head. A deep inhale through your nose finds something rotten in the pockets. No time.

Out of the closet, lights off, drop down the ladder, and fuck the door, you're out the window. You swing around the corner of your home.

You're already so late before you even see the moon. She looks disappointed in you and also slightly disgusted. It takes you a moment in the cold to realize why.

Shoes. You didn't even grab any shoes!

"Grah!" You growl but you've got no time left. You stop so abruptly you flip through the air. You stare down at the almost matching, fuzzy, old socks. No time, absolutely no time. You fly anyway, right? Your hair presses against your back, the wind so gently pushing you forward. Go on, go on. You let out one last grumble and focus your eyes forward. Take flight, you terrible, smelly, under-dressed beast.

She's just beyond the woods, hopefully. She hasn't really left. She's waiting for you, you boot-forgetting idiot. Why do you do this? What statement does it really make other than the fact that you're an asshole? You like knowing, you guess, you like the security. You like being certain she'll always be there.

She's your girlfriend, right? She knows who you are, how you act. She loves you, she knows you'll never be on time. Why are you even worried about a girl? She's just, just a girl.

You're already far too late before you gulp, knowing very well that you're lying to yourself.

You dive into the woods and the tree branches greet you with a thousand little scratches. The leaves rustle as everything for the next mile trembles in fear at the sight of your shadow. You smirk ever so slightly, letting a fang linger on your lip. You're one of the most terrifying things in the entire land, you don't need a girl. Ha!

You're already far too late before you realize it. You're building yourself up for the imminent break-up.

You sink lower into the shadows of the woods. Your motion sends the decades of dead leaves flying. You're going as fast as you can, you're a blur to the world. The world is a monotone blur to you. The forest's song of nymphs and centaurs is growing distant. You feel sort of ill. It's from moving so quickly, you think. You haven't flown this fast in years. You shake your head and try to enjoy the crisp air in your locks.

You're already sure she won't be waiting anymore. Yet still, you're ill with butterflies. If you had a heart that wasn't the consistency of mashed potatoes, it'd be pounding.

The last trees open the plains up for you like a doorway into melancholy. In the moon's proud reflection, the hills look to be an ominous gray. You see nothing but the grasslands at first. You bring yourself to the ground and feel a chill through your toes. Your hair dwindles over your face as you squint hard.

You're already so late, the moon is the only one here. Even she looks tired of waiting. Your whole body grows heavy, your shoulders sagging, your chest collapsing. You won't bring yourself to cry, not here. You float upwards, slowly hoping. Just one shred, one shred of pink, it's all you need. Your eyes fall shut as you hold it in.

You smell, your socks really don't match, your hoodie has something rotting in the pockets. You didn't even remember your boots. You gaze out into the oddly bright night. You hear the once trembling woods behind you erupting in laughter. Your eyes flicker upwards one last time.

You're already so very late, but you find the pink you're looking for. Off in the hills, somewhere between the shadows and the light, she's waiting. Your chest springs to life and the fossils under your skin begin rattling. You give a triumphant flip forwards and hit top speed. There she is, her hair falls so well around her body. It pools down neatly to the red and white checkered blanket spread beneath her. Her legs are to her side, she's sitting properly for her dress. It's purple, a surprise. It's some sort of lavender, you think. It seems so familiar.

You're already above her when you realize, it's your dress. Lavender wraps so well around her figure. A big black bow is wrapped around her waist.

She wore your dress and you didn't even wear shoes. You let yourself fall, trying to see how many books she's read in your absence. Two, you see, she's closing the second as you drop. You slow your speed and steady yourself. She's ready to leave when you arrive. Your hair pools in her lap, your shadow overwhelms her. You're upside down, completely, meeting your dark eyes with hers. You saw this in a movie once.

"Marceline," she says, unflinching. "You're late." Her voice is stern and you know. She knows that you know. The moon knows that you both know, you're late, and yet again she's unhappy.

"I know, Bonni," you say with an uneasy smile. She reaches up her hand to silence you. Here it comes, you think. Here's the break-up.

"I know you're sorry, too, Marceline," she says. She's been crying, you can tell even with the shadow of her bangs covering her face. You want to reach out for the redness in her cheeks. But you know, you know you caused it.

"I almost got here in time," you say. You're lying, again.

"Marceline." She sighs, there were other words there but she misplaced them in the night. That's unusual for Bonni, you think. But then again, she's probably been organizing what to say to you for hours.

"I don't know why I'm still here," she says. It's cold and painful for you both. She winces and pulls her eyes far away from yours. It's coming. You flip yourself around and sit on your knees in front of her. Your face is even more pale than usual, so completely drained.

"I don't know either, Bonni," you admit. "You can do better," you whisper. You wouldn't admit it to anyone else.

She doesn't deny it, she doesn't list your finest qualities. You have no resume that makes up for the awful things you do. Some of the things you do make her miserable. You know that, she knows that, and she's so tired of putting up with it. She's so tired of waiting.

"Why don't you just go date a prince or something?" It's more passive aggressive than you meant, but you have to defend yourself somehow.

"Because I love you," she says. Her voice is cracking but she's too tired to cry. "And I _thought_ you loved me."

"I do, I really, I do. Shit, Bonni. I don't know why I suck, okay? I just do. I really, really do. I suck at being on time and I hate dinner parties. I burp whether or not you're in the room. I think licking your subjects and sticking them to the ceiling is funny, okay?!"

You take a deep breath and you pause. There's more, there's so much more. Like how you once ate the color out of every decoration for the Valentine's ball. Or, or, how you switched the children's movie night film with 'Blood, Guts, and Ooze 3: More Oooze.' Alright, you're an awful girlfriend, and being. But that's you, you being you.

"Wait, it was you that stuck Cinnamon Bun to the ceiling?" She asks, so curious, so lacking of anger.

"Yeah, how else to you think he got up that high?" You smirk.

"Marceline!" She's shocked but she begins giggling and soon she can't stop. "That's s-so mean!"

"That's sort of part of my whole gig, babe."

"It took us three days to get him down!" She stiffens up and punches you in the arm.

"Come on, Bonni, you laughed."

She can't deny it but she wants to be mad at you. "You're still a butt."

"Are you still mad at me?" You decide to ask.

"Yes." She nods. "I'm always mad at you, you're just talented at making me forget it. You've got to start showing up on time, okay? I can't keep doing this."

"Can we start with slightly less late and work our way up? On time might be asking a lot."

"Will you at least show up wearing shoes next time?" She asks. You thought she didn't notice. But she raises her eyebrows and looks like she's about to erupt with laughter.

"Sure, Bonni, whatever you want." You smirk and she leans forward, brushing her nose against yours.

You're already supposed to be heading home when you're laying with her. You're weary of the sun by the time she's burrowed into your chest. You're staring into the horizon, wanting to run when she plants a gentle kiss on your jaw. By the time you've got your fingers briskly brushing through her thick hair, you realize what you're always missing. Hours pass that feel like only moments and you hate it. You hate leaving her, you hate saying good-bye. You hate the very moment she kisses your cheek and takes her blanket off through the hills. You hate the way her kisses last for hours on your skin. You sink into the woods on foot, twigs jamming you in your arches.

You're already in your cave asleep by the time the sun greets the world. She's already running her kingdom, already making the world the better place. Meanwhile you debate a bath, debate cleaning your pockets out. All the while, not regretting a single sticky citizen or misplaced film. You don't regret burping at the Duke of Nuts. You really don't give a single shit about puking red at Wildberry Princess after sucking the red out of every heart on Valentine's.

But damn, every time the sun comes up, you regret being late.


End file.
